My poetry

I can't stop writing poetry - it's got a hold of me.I don't ever sit down and think: 'Right, I'm going to write a poem' - they just arrive from somewhere. In the past this was described as a visit from the muse and I believe it; someone or something is throwing poems my way so the least I can do is capture them on paper.The poems nearly always start with a single line or phrase and I work quickly on a first draft which I usually complete in one sitting. I then revisit them until I am pleased with the words but even now I still change line breaks and odd words in old poems.I always like those poetry books where there are snippets of info on the poem or poet so I will provide the same - I hope you enjoy them.If you wish to reprint or use my poetry in any way then just ask.

The Mars Rover sends a postcard home

Bit shit here really, weather's alright, though. They said: You'll meet some of your family and they're all here, dead as doorknobs, wheels to the red sky. Last month I uncovered a Palvoronian giga-book with some holographic pages still projecting onto my hard drive but I don't think they'll be that interested; they've sent me here to die with all the rest. Or play in the sand with

Mr Duffy

An onion, an effing onion,not a red rose or a satin heart;I don't know what's got in to her lately,she wasn't like this at the start.She kept waving it in my face,making my eyes water,and saying something about grief.Now I'm worried for our daughter.That's the trouble with poets:never calling a spade a spade,She's coming at me now with a knifebut these moods will fade.I'll accept her onion ring,pretend I'm the chip shop kind;anything for a quiet life,even a vegetable valentine.

White light

Try to imagine the dark lowering cloudand underneath the white light of the sun

(only I could see itthrough the window -the sky tilted up above the treetops)and Solomon's head dented into the hollow of my shoulder,his toothbrush clenched in my wife's handas Noah finger picks the guitar to his animal song(who screamed and kicked the football alongyet now plants one foot on the Victorian chest of reverend so and so of somewhat when)and steals from the fag end of the daysomething like gloryfrom the broken strings

Inspiration comes in many forms but this time it was coming across the sketch (above the poem) of a cave drawing from the neolithic era depicting, amongst a wild mass of cattle, a lone human like figure with antlers. The possible spiritual life of the artist lead me into the poem but the picture reaches across 12 000 years and gives my spiritual shallowness a real tweak of the nipple.(The picture to the left is another sketch of a different but similar figure from the same cave in France.)

The writing of Moon Rabbit and The Whimsical Llama

I think it was T.S. Eliot who said, 'Bad poets borrow, great poets steal,' or something like that. So I felt little guilt when I saw a short piece of fiction written by a Year 8 boy beginning with the words 'The whimsical llama...' and I immediately knew I had to steal those very words for my own piece of writing. I like to think I stole nothing else but the whimsy of his writing entered the poem too as did the phrase 'great curdle'. (James, if you're reading this - thanks again!).From the same writing workshop I'd run I read another piece by another Year 8 boy titled 'Moon Rabbits' and I was off again, still carrying the baton of whimsy I'd been clutching in the previous poem. Moon Rabbit has now spawned a cartoon on my kitchen wall, a powerpoint presentation to accompany a performance of the poem and of course, the picture opposite. I recently met a poetry hero of mine in the form of John Hegley and he asked me very directly if I drew to accompany the poetry I wrote. When I got home I thought that, yes, they do go together and now I'm drawing and writing and liking this new marriage.